Forbidden Fruit
by Oasis Blackmore
Summary: You had your forbidden fruit, and now she needs hers. Oneshot.


**A/N: Just a little something to read while I decide what exactly I want to do with the next chapter of "All it Takes." Enjoy.**

Forbidden Fruit

When she's little, you live for her smiles, her laughs, for the days when she calls your name and reaches out for the safety of your arms, even when she's not frightened or upset.

You know that in an hour or so, she'll start crying again, and it'll break your heart to see her little, round face scrunched up in what she knows to be _the_ absolute agony.

You dread the fact that soon, she'll reach the Terrible Twos and start throwing tantrums and learning about "free will."

You're sure that potty-training will be a dirty business, and breast-weaning will be painful--for both of you.

You expect the impending separation anxiety when she reaches the age of five (or six, if it's too hard to let go) and starts going to real school.

You brace yourself for all the hubbub of dealing with her social life and assuring her that "Lacy didn't mean it when she said you were stupid." and that "Ricky only pulls your pigtails because he likes you."

You understand that girls cry over boys and sisters and ex-best friends, because you went through it, too.

From the moment the doctor tells you "It's a girl.", you prepare for everything that happened to you to happen to her.

You pull out your old diaries and take mental notes on how you _should have_ resolved that conflict with your high school sweetheart and what you _should have _said, instead of flipping the bird, when your teacher asked why your grades were slipping.

What you don't expect is for your little girl to be so different, to be so much more dramatic and strong-willed and intelligent and witty and talented than you were.

You don't prepare for her to write lists about her anger instead of throwing fits or to make _herself_ do homework at all hours.

You don't get how she can fight with her sister so rarely, even when they're the most unlike pair in the world.

Along the way, you try to avoid the forbidden fruit, the one that calls to you and tells you that you and your husband can't last, that it must be ended, and you will find someone else, no matter the cost.

Despite all odds, in the end, you're willing to sacrifice her happiness for yours.

You couldn't have imagined her understanding when you and her father finally break it off, though a temporary rift forms, through which all her underlying anger and sadness flows, until she truly accepts that "Mommy and Daddy" are no more.

You hope she isn't hurting as much as her eyes say she is when you all peel out of the driveway and follow the moving van.

You are amazed at how subtly she hints at her discomfort when you move into a new house, with a new husband and his three kids.

You don't understand why she and her stepbrother (the one who's only a couple months older than her and is everything she's not) just _can't_ coexist.

Frankly, you don't want to accept the real problem with the two, the only _real_ problem, of which she's ever been a part.

You hate that this is something can relate to and that, even so, you won't be able to help her when it all falls to pieces.

You _are_ aware of how tempting even the most rotten, forbidden fruit is, but you'd promised yourself this would never happen to one of _your_ little girls--not to this extent.

You don't take note of the fact that she doesn't tell you things anymore or that she's spending more and more time with her stepbrother, supposedly against her will.

She wouldn't _really_ give in to such unwanted urges.

Would she?

She wouldn't let herself be corrupted by the boy she constantly fights with, who everyone knows is a terrible influence, who you feel is practically family.

Right?

Your little girl would never take a bite of the forbidden fruit because you know that she knows that it'd make her, and everyone around her, sick.

You always saw her as selfless.

Those subtle glances, soft, nightly noises, accidentally-on-purpose brushes--they don't mean a thing.

Those meant-for-him grins and the look of satisfaction--and guilt--in her eyes are unimportant.

_They're just learning to get along._

_They're just up late, in their respective rooms._

_They're just . . ._

It takes you three years from the day you move in with your second husband and your new children to see that her genuine smiles and laughs are no longer directed at you, but at your stepson, her stepbrother.

You finally hear the playful undertones in their still-incessant banter, and you can tell when she's truly upset with him, which still isn't rare.

You find that the look in his eyes tells that he can tell, too.

You can spot when wrestling over the remote turns to quick caresses and then back.

You frown at the fact that they're both in his or her room, door shut tight, and that her sister and his brother hardly bat an eye as they pass, chatting easily like normal siblings.

_I can't be the only one who sees._

But surely, it's all speculation.

Surely, your husband would have seen, too.

You don't mention it to anyone, but continue to observe.

You feel an expected sadness the month she starts packing for university, and you wonder if this is the end, the end of their uncouth rendezvous and makeshift relationship.

Their touches and smiles and across-the-room gazes have been painfully obvious in the past months, but maybe that's because you've been looking for them.

You search for the darkness in her eyes, the fear of losing him.

It's nonexistent.

On the day of her departure, you cry, and she cries.

You watch them hug, watch her pull away and look directly into his eyes for an extended second before she turns and steps onto the platform to her plane.

Two weeks later, he leaves, too.

She promises to come home for Christmas, and when she does, you half-expect her to be dragging a boyfriend along with her.

No such luck, but she assures you there's someone in the picture.

Your stepson arrives the next day, and they greet one another like they haven't met in months, a mysterious gleam in their eyes.

Two weeks pass in minutes, and they're both off, leaving the same day, leaving the same unconfirmed suspicions.

You get a letter from her two years later, and you're shocked to hear that she's engaged, though she still hasn't brought her fiancé home. She promises to introduce him next Christmas.

You pray it's not him, that it's a perky blond with a smart sense of style and a funny bone fit for a comedian.

Christmas rolls around, and you're anxious to meet him, anxious to know the truth.

They arrive at the same time, and you peer around their huddled figures, hoping to catch a glimpse of a chunk of yellowy hair. Instead, you see their entwined, gloved fingers and their nervous smiles.

Of all the things you'd never expected when she was born, this was the most shocking.

How inexplicable it is that she could survive so long, feeding only on one of the most forbidden fruits.

How perplexing, that she doesn't look at all sick, and you really don't feel sick, either.

Perhaps because it's wonderful, how she looks so jovial, glowing, radiant, and he exudes less arrogance, and more caring, than ever before.

How odd it is that you suddenly understand why he had to be seen as the illicit one.

Perhaps if he hadn't, she never would have been tempted.

She never would have proven that she is just like you.

She only wants what will make her happy.

She can only hope it doesn't destroy the happiness of everyone around her.

You had your forbidden fruit, and now she needs hers.

It's possible she's found the same happiness you did.

**A/N: A rather . . . different style from me, no? Review if you like.**


End file.
